Upon A Starless Sea
by Kryss LaBryn
Summary: Is it possible to write realistic E/R slash? Can these two be kept in character and still have any kind of a relationship? Possibly, if enough distrust, madness, and revenge is added to the mix! But it probably won't end well...
1. Chapter 1

**Upon A Starless Sea**

By Kryss LaBryn

Author's Forward: All right, my dears. First off, please let me make one thing perfectly clear: So long as everyone involved is a consenting adult, I don't care in the slightest what you're doing, or with whom. It is not my business in the _slightest_ how many people are involved, nor what genital configuration you have. Fussing about whether or not two people who love each other have the "right" configuration of genitalia in a partnership makes as much sense to me as fussing about whether or not they have the correct configuration of skin colour, or eye colour, or hair colour, or anything else equally irrelevant. It. Does. Not. Matter.

Hell, for that matter, it doesn't matter for casual encounters either (in case by mentioning that whole thing about "two people who love each other" you thought I meant that LBTG sex was only okay if you were saving yourself for marriage or some such twaddle). Why should straight folks have all the fun of one-night stands or casual flings or what? Be responsible, make sure everyone's a legal adult and wants it, and have at 'er.

Nor do I have any particular problems with slash, although I have to admit, making two canonically-straight characters wildly OOC in order to have them have sex for teh pretty just seems, well... well, if you basically have to write entirely new characters to make it work, then why not simply write something original? Okay, I know that a bunch (most?) of the hotness is because it's Character A and Character B, whom we all already know, rather than OC A and OC B, but still, if you have to change their personalities so completely, _is_ it still CharacterA/B?.

Anyways, I'm drifting off my point, which is this: E/R. Yeah. There's a bunch of it, and while I can't really speak for all of it (not being able to claim that I've read anything like "all" of it), there's a certain amount, at least, which tends towards the "Oh, Raoul/Erik, never mind about Christine; it's _you_ I've wanted all along." Which I find... implausible.

So I've been wondering for quite some time if it would be possible to keep them all reasonably in character (as much as with any fanfic, at least), and still end up with E/R. Kind of. In a manner of speaking. Well, at least to get them into bed together, which is the best I think I can hope for, I think, given the characters involved. And I came up with a plot that seemed to me to be at least reasonably plausible (or at least not wildly unlikely, I hope), and now I've... yeah, well, okay, look, I never said I _wouldn't_ write slash, okay? I simply didn't have any particular reason to.

Until now. So, yeah, this is the fic. And yeah, it goes there. So I guess the whole point of this absurdly long and rambling Author's Note is this: If ya don't like slash you probably ought to stop now. Also, the point of it is the story about these two characters, not specifically these two characters having hawt makeouts and sexytiems, so if you're only interested in that then you've got a looooot of reading to get through first. ;-) Also, if manipulative bastards are a trigger for you then you should probably stop now. I hate to go into details in trigger warnings because it can so totally give away the plot, but yeah, there's triggers ahoy. Proceed with caution.

Enjoy!

* * *

><p><strong><span>Chapter One<span>**

"Ah, Monsieur le Vicomte de Chagney! It is so good to see you again!" Maurice de Cousture-Therrier beamed warmly as he shook Raoul's hand. "It has been far too long, mon ami! Oh, but I forget myself; you are le Comte himself now, are you not? I was so sorry to hear about your brother. Such a terrible accident!"

"It was; my thanks for your concern. It is good to-"

As ever, Cousture-Therrier rushed over his words. He always did seem to be in a terrible hurry, Raoul recalled fondly. "Ah, but I must not keep you! The performance will be starting shortly! Indeed, I would have missed you myself had I not- but tell me, where are you sitting? Will you not join me, you and your lovely wife? The rumours are true? You did marry that pretty little singer?"

"I did, but she is not here. She- stayed in Sweden." He still could not speak her name easily. Thankfully, Cousture-Therrier did not seem to notice. "I am here briefly on business. And I am afraid my seating arrangements cannot be easily changed."

"Ah, well, ah, well. Another time, perhaps. You _will_ look me up before you leave town? You can reach me in all the same old places. -Oh! They're starting! Excuse me, please! My wife will never forgive me for not being by her side when the lights went down. It's a good thing we're in a box and not the middle of the stalls, eh?" He grinned and scurried off, leaving Raoul alone.

He looked around, lost in something akin to wonder, if of a darker hue. How could the place be the same? After all that had happened within these walls- the violence, the deaths, the mortal terror- how could they even be standing, let alone be so unchanged? He stared up the great expanse of the grand staircase, memory seeing for a moment a malevolent flicker of red. Surely the whole thing should have been left a smoking ruin. But nothing had changed since that terrible night that he had fled with her across Paris to the train at the North Gate, fled all the way to her homeland. Nothing had changed at all- except him.

He permitted himself a heavy sigh before he squared his shoulders to his unpleasant duty. Given his druthers, he would never have come back to France at all; he would have gone to Germany, perhaps (where they still had a healthy respect for noblemen, even foreign ones), or perhaps Belgium. Not France. But he had promised her, hadn't he? He could never have denied her anything, and de Chagny's always kept their promises. Always.

There had been no further outright incidents with the "ghost" that his discreet enquiries had been able to discern; but the rumours that Box Five on the Grand Tier was haunted persisted, so, unfortunately, there was a chance that the bastard was still alive. Or perhaps he truly had kicked off, but had failed to find peace and was now a ghost in truth. Served him right it he was, Raoul thought. But when he was active, the ghost had always appeared each opening night in his box, halfway through the first ballet. And if Raoul was to deliver his message, that would be the best time and place to succeed. Whether he would or not, whether Erik would be alive and present to hear him, whether he would respond if he was, Raoul did not know; but no one could say that he hadn't done his utmost. A sealed envelope with a brief note rested securely in his inner pocket; if he had no answer he would leave it on a seat. He knew the box would be unoccupied tonight. Theatre folk love their superstitions, and the ghost that haunted the Palais Garnier was a fine one. Most nights the box was rented without incident; but each premiere, the box was left empty. For luck. For the ghost.

Surely the ballet would begin within ten more minutes. Ten more minutes, at the outside, say one more to steal down the hall and dart inside the door (assuming the box keeper was not about), another minute, maybe two, to deliver his message.

And then five more minutes to reach the rented cab waiting for him around the side, and then straight to the train station. He would retrieve his bag from the porter, and he would quit Paris on the 22:50, and never, ever return.

There- that must be the start of the ballet. One could recognize the type of music, after a while. He peeped through a little window in the door at the back of the auditorium. Yes, the ballet. Good.

Raoul strolled away a little and lit a cigarette, to while the time until the ballet was over, and to provide the excuse should an usher see him out of his seat. At the sound of applause, he stubbed it out in a nearby receptacle and made his way leisurely to the Grand Tier. Box One, Box Two, Box Three, and he turned casually to see if anyone was about, Box Five. He slipped inside.

It was empty.

On the stage, the opera continued, the cast in fine voice. Raoul stayed at the back, in the shadows, not wishing to disrupt the performance; he kept his voice low.

"Erik... Erik. Are you here?" No answer. "Well. I have a message for you. From... Christine." He swallowed the lump that speaking her name always brought to his throat. "She wanted you to know. She was most... insistent."

Still there was no reply.

"Well, if you aren't here to hear me, I'll leave you a note," he continued, ignoring the error in his logic. "But, well- Well. Christine is dead. She wanted you to know. Her constitution was never very robust, and she never fully recovered from her ordeal here." He paused. Still nothing. "Consumption, you know. I suppose it popped up from her father. She might have carried it forever, I suppose, except that..." He stopped, overcome with emotion. Eventually, he continued. "In any case, she died very peacefully, at home. Her home, in Sweden. Her family had had a little farm there, did you know? Most of it had been sold off, bit by bit- her father wasn't a very good farmer- but we did manage to buy the last bit with the house. So she died in the bed she was born in. She liked that, I think."

Raoul bowed his head, fighting back tears. He would be leaving soon and didn't want to have to explain away red eyes. Besides, he thought, he had done enough crying in his life. He wanted to be done with it.

At first, he barely noticed the voice that murmured, "So I have truly lost her, then."

A moment later, however, it registered, and Raoul's head shot up. "'Lost her?' '_Lost_ her?' You never had her, you bastard! Even when her 'angel' forbade her the company of men, she complied so she wouldn't lose her angelic tutor, not because she had any regard for _you_!"

"Guard your tongue, de Chagny," the voice said coldly. Did it come from that chair? He did not bother to face it.

"Guard my tongue? Or what, _Erik_? You'll _kill_ me? And what do I have left to lose, eh?" Raoul's voice he kept under control, fierce, but a whisper; but his hands clenched and to his extreme annoyance he wept. "My mother and father I lost long ago, my sisters won't speak to me, and you have already killed my brother and my _wife_. _You_ killed her, Erik, you with your damnable dungeon home and fearful face and your terrorizing of a- a _child_ who deserved nothing but to finally find a little happiness in her life! What have you left to threaten me with? The very worst thing you could do to me would be to let me walk away and live a long and healthy life without her."

There was a silence so long that Raoul thought he had left, and he was about to turn and leave himself when Erik spoke. "_I_ killed her? _I_? I _loved_ her, _boy_; I would never have harmed a hair on her head! It was _you_ and your meddling that spoiled everything! Don't blame _me_ for any of it. Your brother came seeking _you_, not me, and _I_ did not drag her halfway across Europe!" He paused, but Raoul could hear him panting. "How _dare_ you blame _me_ for her death when she was in _your_ care!"

He was quiet a long moment more. Raoul turned to go, his message delivered and his duty discharged, but Erik's voice- his _Voice_, stopped him. "_Venez! Et croire en moi..._ I sang that to her once, you know."

Fists clenched, Raoul grated out, "I know."

"I shall never hear that song again without weeping." The sadness of an Angel lamenting the fall of man suffused his voice. "Did she- did she ever speak of me?"

"Upon occasion. Mostly she sighed. Sometimes, at night, she screamed."

His golden tones were of utter despair. "Ah, the poor, poor child. May she find rest with her angels at last, in truth. I never meant her the slightest harm, you know."

"So I gathered." Raoul's own voice was dry; he was determined to be unmoved by Erik's tricks.

"If only I could have been her angel in truth. But alas! I am nothing but a man." He sighed.

"Indeed." Raoul stepped to the door.

"Wait, de Chagny! Please- if you must leave, then return, I beg of you. Just once. Just here, to this box. I would- I would speak once more with one who knew her whom we both- both loved."

His voice, his accursed Voice, enfolded Raoul, enveloped him, and he left, his final words muffled and dull- human- in his ears as he closed the door behind himself. He would return, curse him. He had said that he would, and de Chagny's always- _always_ kept their promises.


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter Two**

True to his word, Raoul returned, albeit reluctantly. His train ticket had not yet been purchased; his valet was simply informed that his master had additional, unexpected business and had to remain for a few additional days. Certainly it wouldn't be for very long. One more visit to the opera- that great stone edifice heavy with the weight of memories in every place he trod- one more visit, and he would be done. He supposed it would be, well, not pleasant, but- talking of his dead wife would be a pleasurable pain akin to tearing off a scab, and in a slightly masochistic way he looked forward to the experience, even if his conversational partner was the man he held responsible for her death.

But there was none other living who had known Christine Daaé as well as the two of them.

Accordingly, at seven o'clock, Raoul as close to bounded up the steps of the opera as the bottle hidden under his jacket would permit. It not being opening night, there were no reservations about letting Box Five to the public, and his valet had been able to secure it for a performance only a few days later, allowing the comte to openly enter the little alcove.

However, his "wine" he smuggled in.

It was not uncommon for a little refreshment to be called for by the inhabitants of the box; but still, Raoul did not want this bottle to be mistaken for another. He did not trust any food nor drink that his erstwhile nemesis may have had access to; nor did he want his wits dulled in the slightest. Accordingly, the ersatz bottle of Sauvignon Blanc in truth contained only watered apple juice.

By keeping his head down and arriving just after the curtain was scheduled to rise, he was able to make his way without being stopped by any old acquaintances, an eventuality which he dreaded almost more than the idea of spending any time with the fiend. Thank God _he_ would remain hidden; and thank God Raoul wouldn't need to maintain a cheerful façade with him, nor have to explain- _again-_- why Christine was not with him, what had happened to her, good lord how terrible, if there's anything we can do, oh hello there young Raoul, where's your pretty young wife?

Gritting his teeth Raoul opened the door, brushed the heavy curtain aside, and went in.

Thank God they were playing _Tosca_, he thought, slumping into a chair near the back and sinking his face into his hands. _Tosca_ was good and loud, with nice, hearty arias; a quiet conversation would not draw unwelcome attention. And- he had never heard _her_ in the rôle. If it had been _Faust_, his heart would have broken.

It would be at least half an hour before the ballet that almost every opera had midway through the first act- he could relax for a moment. Get his breath back. Steel his nerves. He would not show weakness in front of- of _Erik_ (may as well name him; he certainly was no angel nor ghost, and perhaps using his name would remind Raoul of his vulnerability, his mortalness). If it came to it, he would take a page from Christine and do as she had laughingly confided to him once, when he had asked how she could possibly be so cheerful and gay at a reception after what he had been given to understand had been a particularly difficult rehearsal: He would _act_.

He would _act_ the part of the young nobleman, if necessary, of a man talking about someone he once knew, without actually _feeling_ anything of it. He would distance himself from the words he spoke, turn them into a sham, and thereby take away their power to wound him. And perhaps he could then make it through this evening with his dignity intact, and he would refuse any further visits (if solicited), saying merely that he had pressing business to attend to at home, that could not be put off any longer.

He did also wonder, though, if perhaps, by having this conversation, he might find the answer to a question that had long puzzled, nay, haunted him: why did those who knew him, the Persian and her both, regard the man with such pity? Surely he was pathetic, and monstrous; but why was he deserving of the slightest morsel of _pity_? For God's sake, the man had repeatedly kidnapped a young woman, had terrorized her, had even threatened to kill not only her, but also the man she loved, his own friend, and, indeed, over two thousand members of the audience, plus the cast, the crew- everyone, in short, who inhabited a building in itself the size of a small town.

_Pity?_

"You have excellent bones." The voice was soft, and at that moment so hauntingly beautiful as to be virtually sexless. "I wonder... If things had been- different, would I have had... would my face have resembled yours, at all? In my younger days?"

The voice was wistful, gentle; and yet, somehow every hair on the back of Raoul's neck stood up. Every instinct screamed _Danger!..._

"You're a bit early, aren't you?" he asked, keeping his face straight, fighting off the feeling of an invisible, covetous knife at his temple.

"Do you see that man there? There, in the box across the way. His lady is in green. Do you see? Do you remark his appearance? Note the eyes, like two under-poached eggs. His nose, the pride of an egret. His gaping mouth, swallowing like a dying carp. Do you see his hair? Lank, greasy, what there is of it- is he not one of the very ugliest men you have ever had the misfortune to lay eyes upon?"

The voice fell silent for a long moment. Raoul peeked unobtrusively at the man. He was, indeed, extraordinarily ugly; his features seemed arranged (or disarranged) by an unkind God to show the man to the worst possible effect.

Dreamily, the voice continued. "Indeed, he is an ugly man. And yet, no one screams when he walks into a room. Women do not faint at the mere mention of his name. Children do not break into hysterics when his shadow passes over them. Look at him! _He has a wife_."

Raoul said nothing.

"Do you know, I would give anything- _anything_, to be merely as ugly as that man?"

Erik sighed. "And you- you are Adonis himself! Thank God, whoever that may be. Thank God that you are you- young, rich, titled, _perfect_. What mere mortal could hope to compete with such charms? A handsome childhood sweetheart, now a brave adventurer. Of _course_ she fled to your arms. What woman wouldn't?

"Again I say, _thank God_. As it was I nearly lost my mind with her. Can you imagine- can you imagine what it would have been like to lose her to someone who looked like _him_?"

Again, Raoul looked at the man across the way, now fanning his face with the evening's programme. Even at this distance he could see the gleam of perspiration bedewing the man's brow. What would it feel like, he wondered, to lose the woman he loved to such a man? Well, of course, the thing was impossible, after all? What could that man offer that Raoul could not?

But- what if he looked like Erik? And what if she instead chose, not "a handsome young Adonis," but an older, overweight, balding, _ugly_ man?

If she could tolerate such ugliness in that man, then why could she not tolerate just a little more ugliness? If her lover did not have to be perfect, then why not _him_?

"Ah, but you forget," he replied, almost unaware that he was speaking aloud, "It was not merely your face which filled her with horror. No man, however perfect, whom a woman fears, will ever win her heart.

"You _lied_ to her, you _deceived_ her and broke her heart in the most unimaginable way. Do you know how happy she was, when she thought that angels truly existed, and that her father was absolutely, without a doubt, in a real, actual Heaven? Your deception took that away from her and caused her to doubt something that she had accepted unquestioningly for her whole life. You took away her _faith_."

"I made her happy... If only for a little while, I made her happy. I gave her everything she wanted, everything she dreamed of."

Raoul crossed his arms. "It wasn't worth it."

"You say that now, but if Christine were here-"

"If she was here- She cried herself to sleep every night for _months_, do you know that? She had to have all the lights on or she couldn't sleep. Even so, she woke up nearly every night screaming, terrified that you would somehow find her again, and take her away into your house beyond the lake. No windows, Erik, no light, no joy- just madness and obsession. She feared returning to that the way she would have feared a creeping corpse come to pull her into the grave."

Silence.

"I never wanted to hurt her." The barest whisper. "I loved her."

"Then you should have stayed in the shadows and loved her from afar." With that, Raoul stood and left the box.

* * *

><p><em>AN:_ While _La Tosca_, the play, premiered in 1887, the opera based on it didn't premiere until 1900. However, I really wanted to use it (and which non-_Faust_ian opera is happening in the background is a minor point) so I have gone ahead and done so anyways. But you should know that I'm stretching things a bit there.


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter Three**

Raoul stormed out, but paused in the lobby to think. He had said he would come back for a conversation, but- well, what had occurred could hardly be termed a _conversation_, could it? All he had actually done was make a lot of accusations and stormed away from a man who had no way of following him out into the public areas of the theatre. His well-bred soul shrank. He has been terribly rude. He might argue that he was provoked, but really, _how_ was he provoked? And what happened to the control he had intended? Gone. Gone, and without so much as a struggle.

Raoul had just decided to return and attempt to hold a civilized conversation with the man, come what may, when he looked up at a murmur of sound to see what must have been almost the entire contents of the auditorium disgorging its contents upon the stair.

Raoul groaned, and quickly stepped towards the alcove under the stair, there to wait out the first rush towards refreshment in relative privacy, but it was too late; he had been spotted and hailed.

"Raoul, my boy! Good lord, it's been ages! Where have you been?" The handsome older man who reached for his hand was of about Philippe's age; had been, in fact, a friend of his brother's. Raoul hid his unenthusiasm with a warm smile.

"Hullo- Roget, it was, was it not? It's good to see you again. And Constance," he turned to the man's wife beaming beside him, "How lovely to see you again. You look simply wonderful. What a lovely necklace!"

"Thank you, love! It was my mother's. Well, actually, originally it was _her_ mother's, but, of course-"

"Do you know," her husband interrupted, "When I saw you standing there, for just a moment I thought you were Philippe! How very like your brother you've grown," and he looked sad for a moment. "But come! Perhaps you can clear up a little mystery for us. You were often seen in company with her- whatever became of that little singer- what was her name, Constance? You know the one I mean."

"Daaé, wasn't it?"

"No it wasn't, it was- no, no; I do believe you _are_ right. Daaé, Raoul; do you know what became of little Daaé?"

Raoul looked into Roget's earnest, kindly face, and wished he would go straight to the Devil. But he managed to barely pause before he replied, "Daaé? I believe she returned to the family farm in Sweden."

"In _Sweden_?" Constance gasped.

"What a waste," Roget murmured. "She was an extraordinary singer. Touched by the hand of Heaven, she was."

"What on earth did she want to go to a farm in _Sweden_ for?"

"Well, she was Swedish, you see," Raoul gave a little bow to the lady. "And she found the rigours of performing to be beyond what her constitution was capable of supporting."

"Ah, yes, I can quite understand that," said Roget. "She _was_ rather a delicate slip of a thing, wasn't she? But her Marguerite- extraordinary!"

With some difficulty Raoul managed to extricate himself, and by the simple expedient of acting the role of a man who has most maddeningly forgotten his money in the pocket of his overcoat he was able to return to Box Five with no more than a few "Yes, yes- very good to see you again"'s along the way. It was with a fervent desire for privacy that he closed the box door behind him.

"And don't _you_ start," he glared around the empty box. "I've had quite enough, thank you very much. I'd rather not be tortured with reminisces of 'the pretty little singer' for a few minutes, if you don't mind."

No reply but silence, and Raoul wondered, not without a certain guilty sense of relief, if his bizarre host had left. Well, never mind if he had. Raoul would sit until the second act started, and then, himself composed and the lobby empty, he would depart.

Alas, his plans were dashed. Just as the audience were filing back to their seats, the unearthly voice spoke up again. "Why will your sisters not speak to you?" The tone was light, casually curious. Raoul gritted his teeth.

"Well, they blamed me for Philippe's death, of course! They all adored him, and they think that I as good as broke his neck myself, whatever the inquest said."

"Ah, then, the inquest cleared you? I had heard rumours, but nothing certain. The last thing I knew for certain, the police inspector was looking to charge you with murder."

"Oh, yes, and he did," Raoul said bitterly. "If it hadn't been for the testimony of the Daroga- well, they were disinclined to give an alibi from a Persian and a Muslim too much weight, but there was barely any circumstantial evidence to show that I had even been anywhere near Philippe when he- when he..." Raoul trailed into silence. After a moment, during which he struggled to keep calm, he spoke, his voice tight with the effort to sound casual. "Tell me, Erik- what did happen to my brother? How did he come to- die?"

Erik sighed. "I had nothing to do with his death at all. I will admit that if I _had_ found him alive, at that moment, I should have not long left him so; but he was already dead when my alarms went off. Dress shoes are not meant for clambering about in the depths of the opera, de Chagny! He was in the water already, his neck broken; he must have slipped. The lake really is not very deep, you see. You wouldn't want to go diving into it."

"Will you swear to me that he died naturally? That you had nothing to do with it?"

"I swear."

"Thank you," Raoul spoke gruffly, his throat tight.

"I had seen him about the opera, of course, in his box, with La Sorelli. I can't say that I ever paid much attention to him- there are many men in boxes about the opera! But he seemed to be particularly well-regarded, and Sorelli said he treated her well."

It was such a commonplace thing to say that Raoul was quite thrown. "Thank you," he repeated dumbly. "-Sorelli said that?"

"Not to me, but yes."

"Do you know," said Raoul after a long silence, "What I have always wanted to know, was why? Once she knew the truth about you, why did she keep coming back to you? Why didn't she run when she had the chance? I would have helped her. She knew that I would have helped her to get away, with no obligation.

"Why did she _stay_?"

"Ah, de Chagny. You truly have no idea?"

"I haven't the foggiest. It has-" _It has tortured me_. "It has troubled me. I don't understand it."

"De Chagny, tell me, why do you think I live as I do? A Jack, hiding away at the bottom of his box. Why do you think I made such a strange house for myself, in such a strange place?" The voice held a trace of bitterness.

"Because you're a madman."

Erik gave a short bark of laughter. Where had it come from? Not from his usual chair... more to the right? "Ah, yes, a man would have to be mad indeed, wouldn't he? To shut himself away from the sunlight and fresh air and the singing of birds and his fellow men. Ah, de Chagny, his 'fellow men.' Tell me, do you consider me a 'fellow man'?"

"Well..."

"Tell me truthfully now. There is no need to spare my feelings." He chuckled. "After all, what are they worth, the feelings of a monster?"

"Then, no. No, I have never thought of you as my fellow man."

"But any other, any _normal_ rival for her attentions, you would have so considered."

"Well, of course."

"So why not me? Is it because I am not a young man? But I dress well, I am neat about my appearance; my pockets are not empty, I daresay I could keep a wife quite comfortably. My voice does not grate upon the ear; why, I can be quite an amusing fellow..."

"Why not _you_? My God, man!"

"My God man what?"

"Well, you've killed! You're a murderer!"

"Oh? I do not deny that I have killed; indeed, there was a time I was an executioner for a state- ah, you didn't know that, did you? So yes, I have killed. But _murdered_? Tell me, what _murders_ have I committed?"

"Well, there's Buquet; everyone knows the Ghost killed him!"

"Ah, but my dear de Chagny, you forget- 'everyone knows' that you murdered your brother!"

"That's different and you know it! Philippe was an accident!"

"As was Buquet. I was nowhere near him when he died. He, too, simply fell."

"There are a lot of people simply falling to their deaths around you."

"The cellars of the opera are not safe for the uninitiated to go wandering about it. Why do you think the opera patrons are discouraged from wandering about willy nilly? It isn't because the management is concerned that they might tear a sleeve, I assure you."

"Well, still, you are morally responsible for his death."

"Aaaaah."

"What does that mean?" Raoul scowled.

"And so, we are back at your sisters, are we not?" He chuckled again.

Raoul's fists clenched almost as tightly as his teeth. "It. Is. Not. The same!" he ground out.

"No no, I suppose it wouldn't be, at that." Erik mused.

"Thank you."

"After all, you were able to face your accusers in court. They had to present evidence to prove that you were guilty as charged."

Raoul said nothing, but was maddened by the chagrin he felt. It wasn't the same!

"I will tell you why I live as I do," Erik continued. "I left home when I was about ten or so. I was not abused; but I thought that anything would be better than staying in a house where even my own mother made me wear a mask. Tell me, did your own mother ever quail at the very sight of you?"

"I could not say. She died giving birth to me."

"Ah," said Erik, in a tone which seemed to say, _That explains it._ "That is worse, I think. I am sorry to hear it."

Raoul shrugged. "It would probably have been worse to lose her when I was old enough to remember her. As it was..."

"Indeed. Well, my own poor mother treated me as well as she could, and then I left.

"I was extraordinarily lucky, for rather than starving or being beaten to death in an alley somewhere, I fell in with Gypsies."

"_Gypsies_?" Raoul was aghast. Every child grew up with tales of the terrible things that happened to children stolen away by Gypsies...

Erik chuckled again, a warm sound. "You must not believe everything you hear. The Roma are an extraordinary people, astoundingly pragmatic for a culture so steeped in superstition. We took to each other immediately, and I entered their employ. With them, I travelled the world."

"Indeed? Did you make it to the Pyrénées?"

"I travelled the _world_, boy! Russia, Hungary, yes, even to Persia and India! In India I fell in with pirates, who taught me many useful little tricks-"

"_Pirates_?"

"-And in Persia, I became a state executioner. I also built a magnificent palace for the Shah, the most magnificent building you have ever seen! Ah, it was a wonder."

"_Pirates_?"

"Charming fellows. Quite willing to forgive a chap his little quirks."

"'Little quirks'? Is that what you call them?"

"What else would you call insisting upon wearing a mask at all hours?"

_In your case, bald necessity, I suppose_, Raoul didn't say.

"I travelled the world for decades, de Chagny, from the furthest frozen reaches of the north to most distant deserts of the south. I have consorted with people from every walk of life, from Gypsies and pirates to kings and priests. And do you know why I chose to make a house in the hidden depths of a theatre, de Chagny? Do you know why?

"No, I see that you do not. My house, de Chagny, is as normal a house as one could ever wish to find. True, it has no windows; but there are no _eyes_. Here, I can indulge my passion for music, and be left alone. Here I do not need to fear the endless prying curiosity of my 'fellow man', which condemns not from justice, but only from ignorance.

"Here, de Chagny, I have found for myself, at last, a measure of peace.

"I am not a madman. It is remarkable, perhaps, but there you are. I am quite, quite sane, and I have done what any sane man faced with an insane world would have done: I have retreated into my little sanctuary."

"Whereupon you terrorized the inhabitants of the opera house..."

"'Terrorized'? Hardly that, dear boy. All I have done- _all_ that I did- was to allow a few people to glimpse my naked face. Their superstition did the rest. Tell me, my young Adonis," his voice became deeply sarcastic, "Can you honestly condemn a man as terrorizing a place simply because someone saw his _face_?"

"I suppose..." Raoul began uncomfortably.

"Tell me," Erik continued, in a somewhat calmer tone. "You know my love for music. You have seen something of my architectural skills. You know how travelled I am. Tell me, de Chagny, if I had a normal face, and we had met at some engagement or other, would you have still regarded me as a terrorizing monster? Or would I have simply been a man you had met?"

Raoul was glad that his host had secreted himself in some cranny or other; it meant that he didn't have to meet his eyes.

Erik sighed. "I do not particularly mind being condemned for my _actions_. But it is rather hard to have spent one's life being condemned for the accidental arrangement of one's features. Tell me, de Chagny, what would you suggest that I do? What would you do in my situation? No one could say that I haven't given a normal life the good old college try. The surgeons are coming along quite nicely in their techniques for removing flesh, but alas, their ability to add it back remains lacking. And without a face- worse, with a face that inspires horror- tell me, please. What am I to do?"

"Nothing but to find a quiet place to live out the remainder of one's life in peace, I suppose."

"Yes. But, alas, it is the peace of the grave.

"And then, de Chagny, one day I heard the voice of an angel. And I thought, I thought, de Chagny, that perhaps, just perhaps, if she didn't see my face, if she didn't know I was the terrible Ghost with the head of a skull, then just perhaps I too might taste a little of the Heaven that every other man in the world assumes is his by right.

"Why did Christine stay? I cannot say for sure, of course, but I believe it is because she had a glimpse of the man I might have been, if only my face had been different, and she pitied him.

"Such a small thing, de Chagny. If only that one thing had been different, if I had only been ordinarily ugly, how very different all our lives would have been."

Erik fell silent then, and as Raoul said nothing further, the rest of the performance was passed in silence. Raoul finally departed as the performers were taking their final bows, deep in thought.


	4. Chapter 4

_A/N: I know that in many ways this story has been a bit slow to start, but I wanted to lay the groundwork for what was to come. Things perk up a bit more in the following chapters, I promise! And look! A new location! Yay! XD_

_I personally believe the end result will be worth it. Are you enjoying it so far? Is it tedious drivel? Let me know! :D_

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter Four<strong>

Raoul thoughtfully sipped a postprandial brandy and considered his options. He had intended to leave immediately for home as soon as his original mission was completed, but now he found himself in a bit of a quandary.

The most pressing concern, and the least distressing, in a way, was the simple question of where home now was? He had automatically assumed that he would return to the home he and Christine had made in Sweden, but while that little house was _home_ in and of itself to _her_, what had made it home to him _was_ her. Without her there with him, he had no reason at all to return, and far too many to not. The home was filled with her. Her presence all but shone from the very walls. To remain in it without her would be torture.

And yet, where else should he go? Oh, he _could_ go anywhere, he supposed; upon being cleared of any wrongdoing over his brother's death, his full inheritance was passed over to him. But where would he light? Not the flat he had shared with his brother; that would be as bad as the house in Sweden. The family estate his brother had handed over to his sisters years ago. Even if he had been assured of a warm welcome, the place had too many memories of his various dear departed to bring him anything but sorrow.

He briefly considered attempting to restart his career in the Navy. God knew he'd like to; but he'd resigned his commission without notice and that sort of thing was frowned upon so heavily that he doubted he'd be given another chance.

So the only alternative, really, was to start again somewhere else. But where? He could barely bear Paris itself anymore; the pitying glances he was receiving now that the news was out were almost worse than the cheerful assumptions he was faced with before. _Why can't they just leave me alone?_ He thought. _Why won't they all just stop staring at me?_

The silent complaint caused an odd twinge of guilt that he didn't wish to examine further. He shifted in his chair, suddenly uncomfortable despite the over stuffing, and realized that the man in the chair opposite was regarding him with open curiosity.

Raoul blinked. In his reverie he hadn't noticed the man sit down; he was in a dim, quiet corner of the club, one usually reserved by custom for members in bad moods who did not wish to be disturbed by anything less than a waiter quietly refilling a snifter, but this man, against all the propriety of the place, was actually leaning forward in his perusal!

"Oh, forgive me," the man gave a self-depreciating laugh. "I don't mean to intrude! But- if you'll forgive the intrusion- you _are_ the younger de Chagny, aren't you? The one in the Navy?"

He was an older man, with a pleasant, somehow familiar baritone. The sense of almost-recognition combined with the odd topic roused Raoul's curiosity. So where he had been intending to tell the fellow to mind his own damned business, in no uncertain terms, he instead found himself cordially nodding confirmation.

"Dubeau," the man smiled, offering his hand, and adding, as Raoul glanced at his fine leather gloves, "Bad circulation, you know. I can never seem to keep warm! But tell me, if you don't mind, weren't you to go on that expedition to find D'Artois?"

"I was," Raoul agreed cautiously, "But I was unavoidably detained in Paris and had to forgo the journey."

"What a pity!" Dubeau leaned back in dismay. "What an adventure it would have been! I myself have travelled widely; and yet, I have never been any further north than Novgorod. Tell me, do you think there to be any truth in the old travellers' tale that if you travel into the extreme northern regions, it becomes so cold that fire will actually freeze? I am told it tastes faintly of slightly burned barley-sugar; but to be perfectly honest I find it unlikely."

Raoul laughed. "I can imagine it becoming finally so cold that even a fine old brandy such as this would freeze, but fire itself? I think not. Certainly the more experienced members of the crew said nothing about it."

"I prefer cognac myself. In Novgorod, though- or rather, in the countryside about the city- the peasants there would make an incredible sort of drink by sitting a jug of apple wine out in the snow to freeze. Each morning, they skim off the ice, and by the time only a cupful or so remains, no further ice will form. They have to store it very carefully, and the sensation of drinking it is not unlike being repeatedly beaten about the head by an apple tree; but it is certainly warming! I cannot see it freezing at any temperature, and even if it somehow did, you could probably still manage to cook a nice supper over it. I'm not sure you could see the flame, though. And you would probably want to light it at quite a distance," he added.

Despite his initial desire for solitude, Raoul found himself warming to the man. He was not by nature of a solitary disposition, and to chat casually about unimportant things like travellers' tales and liquor made him relax, finally, for the first time in months. He hadn't realized how knotted his shoulders had been, having had no relief until now. They chatted lightly of inconsequentials, and Raoul leaned back in his arm chair, sipped his brandy, and let the warm, almost-familiar baritone wash over him like a balmy ocean.

He found himself almost dozing, lulled by the brandy and the fire and the rhythm of Dubeau's speech, telling of the travels he himself had undertaken as a younger man, when suddenly he jerked awake. "I'm sorry," he said, "Did you say you were attacked by pirates?"

"Well, the people of the area are tremendously poor, even by the standards of the region. Preying on unprotected ships is the main opportunity they have for gainful employ. And of course our ship wasn't anything like prepared to fend off a concerted attack; but then we'd never have been anywhere near the place if it hadn't been for the storm. Really, it was just bad luck compounded by bad luck."

"But _pirates_? How on earth did you escape?"

"Do you know, I think that's the first time I haven't had to try and persuade my audience that pirates do indeed still exist? Mind you, you're a Navy man; you have probably encountered them yourself."

"I was a Navy man, true; but not for a very long time. We had rumours of them in our area, but we could find no sign of them. They were long gone by the time we arrived."

"Yes, they are a tricky bunch, aren't they? But they have to be, living as they do."

"Was this in Somaliland?"

"No, further west, in Hindustan. It gave me a remarkable opportunity to study their language and culture, at least."

"What did?"

"Oh, didn't I say? I'm sorry. Well, they managed to take our vessel, for as I said we weren't very well-equipped to repel a determined boarding party, and unfortunately rather a lot of the crew were killed trying to defend themselves. The rest were set loose in a lifeboat; I have no idea what happened to them. But as for myself, I was able to convince them that I was such a fascinating and entertaining fellow that rather than shoving me over to the sharks, or trying to squeeze me in with the rest in the lifeboat (which really wasn't designed to hold as many as were already in her), they took me along with them. I spent well over a year in their company."

"Good lord!"

"Yes, well, all in all it wasn't a bad situation. Very poor, as I said, but honest, in their own way; and a resourceful and creative man could do quite well with them. I came into them a prisoner; but when I left, we parted friends."

"Fancy that! Friends with a bunch of pirates! I'm not sure that I would have been able to cozy up to such a lot of ruffians."

"Well, needs must as the Devil drives, as they say. And I found them to be more- slightly more- tolerant of shortcomings than some others. When life is already so very close to the bitter edge of bare survival, little things like the shade of one's skin lose a lot of meaning, if the person underneath is reliable."

"How odd. Someone said something similar to me just the other day..."

"How curious. Well, as I said, I was with them for a little more than a year; when we parted ways I found myself longing for my homeland and a rest from adventures. And so I came home to Paris and built myself a little house in a quiet corner of the city."

But Raoul was barely listening anymore. He was engaged in trying to see his companion more clearly without arousing his suspicions. The corner was dim, most of the light coming from the little fireplace, up to which the armchairs were drawn. But Dubeau's face- was it a little stiff? Raoul had thought perhaps the man had a partial paralysis of the face, not entirely uncommon in men over a certain age- but his smile. The way the flesh moved at the corners of his mouth. Not quite, perhaps, natural?

_Dubeau_, _Dubeau_. The name was unfamiliar, and yet there was a nagging sense of recognition. But surely- surely _not_...

De Beau?

"I'm sorry," Raoul interrupted, "But, if you might indulge me- Your Christian name isn't Erik, by any chance, is it?"

Dubeau leaned back in his chair. "Now, what makes you ask that, I wonder?"

"Please- I will explain all, if you will just humour me..."

Dubeau paused for a long moment. "What gave me away?" he asked finally, quite cheerfully.

Raoul's head swam. For a moment he thought the shock was going to make him faint; indeed, his ears rang, and his sight faded- but he was able to hang on with a tremendous act of will. "Good Lord. De Beau- _The Handsome_. You utter bastard."

Erik laughed. "Now, now, there's no call for insults. Do you know, this is precisely why I stayed with the pirates for as long as I did? With them, the important thing is the man _under_ the skin. But for _you-_- you and the rest of the 'civilized' West- for _you_ the important part is the skin itself, isn't it?"

Raoul growled, "I should call the police. I should have the porter throw you out or lock you away-"

"For what crime?" Erik asked pleasantly. "The crime of whiling away an agreeable evening? My God, the humanity."

"For- for the crime of being- being-"

"'Me'?" Erik sighed. "Do you know, I always thought that if we had simply met as two men, with no history, no antagonism between us, why, there was no reason at all why you shouldn't have taken to me, is there? As I said, I'm quite an entertaining fellow."

"I don't have to listen to this." Raoul stood, fists clenched. "As you have done nothing _wrong_ that I could take to the police, I _won't_ bother raising a fuss. But I _don't_ have to sit here and listen to you any longer!"

"No, no, you are quite right. The hour grows late." He took a sip of his drink. "However, I shall be here again tomorrow evening, should you wish to continue our conversation." The man, the man who appeared nothing more than a well-bred, slightly greying older man, raised his glass to the comte and drained it.

Raoul stood stock still for a moment, fighting every warring impulse within him, then turned on his heel and left.

* * *

><p><em>AN: The apple drink here ascribed to Russian peasants is actually an old Lancre recipe. If you have no idea who or what Lancre is, then hie thee off to the nearest bookstore and buy every Terry Pratchett "Diskworld" book they have. You will not regret it._


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter Five**

It had to have been some kind of mesmerism, Raoul decided. He had certainly intended to keep well away from his club, to simply have his valet pack his small travelling bag, summon a coach, and to then take the next train out of Paris, never mind to where. And yet, here he stood in the foyer of his club, silently struggling to turn and run while the porter took his greatcoat and bag from him.

He didn't want to be here. He most certainly didn't want anything to do with that monster. He certainly wasn't here because he was lonely and had indeed spend a pleasant evening with 'Dubeau,' the first since, oh, since before Christine had died.

Christine. He blinked. He had not even dared think the name for the way his gut would wrench at even the remembered sound of her name, and here he was, just thinking it. Unthinkingly.

"Christine."

"I'm sorry, sir?"

Raoul jumped. He hadn't realized that he had spoken aloud. "Nothing, sorry. No, wait- a brandy, if you please. I'll be in the Blue Room."

"Very good, sir."

Raoul headed towards the dimly-lit Blue Room, filled with misgivings. Was he indeed lonely? Was it the simple companionship of a pleasant, light-hearted conversation over brandies? Or was he indeed caught in a subtle mental trap, one woven by a master mentalist with a mesmerizing voice? I_'ll just stop by the dining room and grab a quick bite_, he thought, and didn't. Was it because his brandy would be delivered elsewhere? Was it simple curiosity, to see if his companion of the previous night had returned, whatever he had said? Or was it something more sinister? He couldn't decide.

_I'll just sit over there for a moment_, he decided, and as he would ever have done, he wandered to the random chair and sat down. _So at least I do have some free will left!_ he mused wryly. And after a moment he rose, sauntered into the dining room, where (it not quite being the dinner hour) a cold buffet was laid out on the side board, took a small morsel of this and that, and paused.

_Was_ it fascination? _Was_ he being controlled? If so, by Erik- or himself? Well, if it was Erik, at least his little sojourn on the way to his rendezvous had reassured him that it hadn't fully succeeded. He was here, and whether because of outside influences or the inner workings of his own brain, he couldn't quite say; but at least he had no fear of being forced into anything against his wishes. _What or earth would he try and make me do, anyways?_ He thought. _So far, he seems to simply want to convince me that all our woes would have been erased had he been a normal man._ The thought made him shift uncomfortably, not least because he rather suspected it was true. If Erik had, indeed been simply Dubeau- well, they would still have been rivals, of that he was sure. But the undercurrent of madness, the kidnappings and threats, would all that have still been there? He wasn't so sure, now.

"Excuse me, sir," said a deferential voice at his elbow; "Your brandy."

Raoul thanked the man absently, taking the snifter, and realized that he had wandered to the door of the Blue Room. One of the chairs in the corner by the fire was empty; in the other he glimpsed a shadowy figure.

It was, he suspected, 'Dubeau'.

Indeed, when he approached, it was Dubeau who rose and cordially bowed him into the adjoining chair. "And how are you this evening, my dear Comte?" he asked. "Have you dined?"

Raoul shook his head. "I had a bite on the way over," he said. "You?"

"Oh, I have dined, myself," said the other. "I see you have your brandy to hand. Would you like to hear more about the pirates, or would you prefer to share some of the nonsense you've heard yourself in your travels?"

Raoul had a curious sense of double-vision. He knew, intellectually, that the man before him was Erik, cleverly disguised (and how?), but especially in the dim recesses of the corner, the illusion of a perfectly normal, older man was virtually complete. Despite what he _knew_, so far as he could _tell_ the man before him was simply Dubeau, a well-travelled, well-educated, well-spoken man. He found it disconcerting.

"Do you know," he said suddenly, "One time when I was in India, in one of the ports there, a man came up to me and asked what disease it was that so spotted the skin of some white men, and turned their hair such an odd colour. He wondered that we weren't afraid of catching it ourselves, how we could share such close quarters with one so afflicted without fear. I think he was afraid that he might catch it himself if he did business with Europeans."

"And what did you tell him?"

Raoul laughed. "That freckles frequently went with red hair and that it was an inherited trait and not catching at all. I'm not sure he believed me, though."

Dubeau chuckled his rich, warm laugh. "That reminds me of the time I was asked if it was true that in the country of the white men, water sometimes fell from the sky in chunks? I did my best to describe the sparkle of a field of snow in the winter sun, but all I could compare it to was an endless white beach. He didn't have any other common frame of reference. I wonder if he ever did see snow? I encouraged him to, but he had a family and a job." He fell silent for a while, then asked casually, "Have you ever seen a unicorn?"

"_What_?" Raoul laughed in turn. "No, of course not! They don't exist."

"Oh, but they do! But you may know them better by their European name, rhinoceros. 'Nose-horn'. You do know how the original description went, do you not? Something like a large goat, but with the tail of an ass and a large horn on its nose, which it uses to defend itself, and also to attack, because it is a vicious creature that can only be tamed by a virgin. I wonder," he mused, "How many poor girls were flattened by irate rhinoceri?"

"But that's completely impossible," cried Raoul. "The pictures of unicorns look _nothing_ like rhinoceroses."

"Ah, but remember, the travellers were forced to describe the animal they had seen in terms of animals with which their audiences were familiar. One needs a common frame of reference or communication is impossible. And so they could only describe it as being something like these animals which you already know, and so when those hearing the descriptions wanted to draw the animal, they could only do so by drawing it as they had heard it described, you know, by drawing it as a conglomeration of the various animals it was _sort_ of like."

"Ah, I think I see! 'It looks like a dog but different' isn't a helpful description; anyone hearing that is going to simply draw something that looks like a dog."

"Exactly. And perhaps a bit different, but still looking more or less like a dog, because how does one paint 'but different'?"

"You can't describe something as looking like awhat-do-you-call-it or some such thing if your audience hasn't the foggiest what a what-do-you-call-it or whatsit actually is."

"Precisely. And so we have the camel-leopard- and we have the unicorn."

"Then I suppose I _have_ seen a unicorn at that," Raoul mused. "What an incredible thing to be able to say!"

"It is, isn't it?" Dubeau smiled.

_I suppose I'm seeing one now, in a way, aren't I?_ Raoul considered. _Here I am, face to face with what would be described as a near-supernatural figure- only he's just a man after all, isn't he? Or is he? Is he a supernatural entity disguised as a man? Or a man disguised as a supernatural entity? Or rather, a man who disguises himself as a supernatural entity disguised as a man. Oh, I'm all in a muddle!_

It had to have been the brandy, he decided. Usually he had quite a good head for the stuff, but tonight... Perhaps it was because he hadn't had much in the way of dinner. Nor lunch, he realized. Did he even have breakfast? He couldn't remember.

And meanwhile, Dubeau was continuing what was shaping up to be a fascinating discussion about the factual roots behind fantastical creatures. Raoul couldn't help but be absorbed by it all. "I say," he broke in at last, "Do you know the one about the wild mountain men with their heads in their chests? Below their shoulders, I mean. The description of them. You know." How many glasses had he had?

"Ah, yes, I have heard of that one. My understanding is that what was being described was a type of gorilla."

"Really? Old _pongo pongo_ himself, what?"

"I believe that's the orangutang, the wild men of Borneo. You want _gorilla gorilla_, although I believe any of the great apes would fit the description."

"Ah. Of course." His head was beginning to spin in a not-entirely pleasant manner.

"Are you quite alright?" Raoul was vaguely aware of Dubeau peering down at him in concern, but his voice seemed to be coming from a long ways away. "You seem to be in some difficulty. Are you feeling sleepy? Very sleepy. You are feeling very sleepy..."

"I'm fine," he tried to say, but his mouth didn't seem to want to cooperate. He struggled to sit up, and all went dark.

* * *

><p><em>AN: Raoul's anecdote about the freckles is based on a true encounter. A regular customer in a place I once worked had red hair and quite a lot of freckles and he came in laughing one day, and told me that he'd been stopped by a very nice East Indian woman who was very concerned about the marks all over his skin, and had he seen a doctor about them? So I laughed too, and on we went._

_That was pushing twenty years ago now, and I still haven't forgotten about it, so I thought I'd commemorate it here, because it does make an awesome story._


	6. Chapter 6

**Chapter Six**

Raoul's head swam. For a moment he wondered why he had gone to bed in his clothes; then he realized that he was not on a bed. A sofa? Where was he? What had happened?

"What-" He tried to sit up but vertigo threw him back. "My head..."

"Perhaps a brandy, sir?" offered a dim, hovering shape.

"I think he's had quite enough brandy for this evening; it's obviously not agreeing with him. Just a soda water, if you please."

"Du- Dubeau? Where am I?"

"You're in the library, Raoul. At the club. You came over all queer and Bertrand and I laid you out in here to recover. -Ah, here's your soda water. Now just sip it." Dubeau slipped a supportive arm around Raoul's shoulders and helped him to sit. "That's it."

The soda water did seem to help him slightly, although it also reminded his stomach of how empty it was; it growled loudly.

"Honestly, Raoul, when was the last time you ate something?"

"I think I had a nibble when I arrived..."

"And before that?"

Raoul tried to think. "M'not sure," he admitted muzzily.

"Fathead. All right, you stay here. Bertrand, keep him company, would you? I'll return momentarily."

Raoul lay back and closed his eyes, still feeling queer. Dubeau bustled back in some indeterminate time later with a plate laden with food.

"Here, sit up and eat this. Bertrand, pull that little table over, would you? -Thanks. Would you like a coffee, Raoul?"

Raoul's stomach lurched. "No- no, thank you."

"Good Lord, you're quite green. Are you sure you didn't eat something that is disagreeing with you? A bit of fish, perhaps?"

Raoul simply shrugged, sitting up but his head hanging, feeling miserable.

"Yes, I think that's the most likely explanation. Bad oysters, eh, what? Those ones you told me you had for lunch. -Thank you, Bertrand, I think we're all right now. We'll ring if we need anything further." Dubeau watched him leave before adding as an aside, "They gossip worse than old women, these waiters. Whatever has made you so sick, I think we'll go with bad oysters for now, hmm? He regarded Raoul keenly for a moment. "Come on, have a little bread, and some of this roast. Best thing for an upset stomach, to get some ballast into it."

Raoul obeyed; it did indeed seem to help. "You don't think there was anything in the brandy, do you?"

"I don't see why there should be," Dubeau replied absently. "Were you feeling at all off when you arrived?"

"I think I might have been, a little bit. It's all a bit fuzzy now."

"Then I doubt it was the brandy. Something you ate or drank earlier, no doubt. Is that helping? Would you like some more?"

"I think it is, thanks. -No more, thank you. I think I should rather let this lot digest a bit first."

"Probably wise." Dubeau sat silently, looking pensively across his steepled fingers for a moment. "I don't want to trouble you if you're still unwell, but have you considered my proposal?"

"Proposal?"

"Yes, about sharing my berth."

"About what?" Raoul was bewildered.

"My berth. On my voyage. My last hurrah? You don't remember." He sighed as Raoul slowly shook his head. "Dear me, I wonder if you are ill? This whatever-it-is must have started in on you last night already."

"You must think me terribly rude. I'm sorry to have been such a bother..."

"Not at all, not at all! I was only saying that speaking of our travels as we have been has caused a great desire to take one last look around at the world to well up within me. And I can't imagine a more apt companion than yourself. A sailor, a military man, someone I could rely on if needed- I quite understand that you can't simply drop everything and rush off, but it did sound as though you were at a bit of a loose end, so I had thought... Well, that is, if you're interested... I found an excellent little steamer that could be handled quite well by only two men, but that should do very well on the ocean- although I think we should put in to shore for very bad weather. Are you still interested?"

Raoul considered for a moment and found that he was. Funny that he couldn't remember him mentioning it before- but it did seem the ideal solution. It would take him away from France, away from all his unpleasant memories, back to the ocean he loved... And Dubeau seemed a solid fellow. Certainly he seemed to know his stuff. Raoul would make sure to double-check his preparations of course- not that he didn't trust the older man, but, well, two heads were better than one.

"Do you know, Dubeau, I think that I am!"

"Excellent! Then, my boy, if you feel up to travelling I would suggest that you go home and rest. Meet me here again tomorrow evening; we'll have enough light that I can take you down to see her then."

Raoul agreed completely. He felt better, but by no means top notch.

It wasn't until he started to get undressed for bed, having been helped into a cab by Dubeau and the ever-helpful Bertrand, that he realized that his collar and tie had been loosened. He must look like an absolute drunkard! Still, he supposed it was the sort of thing one did to help someone who had fainted. The male equivalent of loosening the corset strings.

He was slightly more disconcerted to find that his belt had also been loosened. Perfectly reasonable, under the circumstances; but for some odd reason the thought of Dubeau's spidery gloved fingers plucking at his buckle disquieted him.

He could find no logical reason for his discomfort, though, and no reason why his possibly over-tight belt should not have been undone along with his collar and tie, so (especially considering that his trousers had not been touched) he settled for simply and briefly wishing he had been set to rights before being paraded through his club, and went to bed.


	7. Chapter 7

**Chapter Seven**

It was with a rising sense of excitement that Raoul entered his club early the next evening and headed for what was becoming "their" corner of the Blue Room. He had found himself caught up in the adventure of it all- think of it! A trip across the world, just him and his friend against the elements, surrounded by the sea, embraced by it... He felt young and joyful as he had not felt since- oh, for ages. Years, really. He no longer wanted to dwell on any past unpleasantness- indeed, his mind all but skittered away from such thoughts- but he didn't care. He was young, he was free, and he was once more about to set sail on an adventure on the high seas. He had spent an enjoyable afternoon perusing compasses and sextants, and had purchased an excellent set with a collapsible telescope. It was all he could do to not pack his bags right then.

Dubeau was there before him, as always, and rose as he saw Raoul. "Are you ready, then?" he asked. "We'll take a cab, I think. It's a beautiful evening but the Quai Voltaire is too far to walk."

Raoul agreed completely, and happily tipped the porter to hail a cab for them. It was with a feeling of immense satisfaction that he settled against the thinly-upholstered seat, grinning like a child on an outing as the driver urged the horse into a brisk trot.

They trotted across the Seine on a stone bridge lit golden by the rays of the setting sun, and turned right to follow the river. "Just up ahead, there," Dubeau called to the driver.

Raoul climbed from the cab and strolled to the edge of the pavement while Dubeau paid the driver. The river flowed past, as slow and ancient and unstoppable as the city herself.

"There," said Dubeau.

He led the way to a beautiful boat of a commendable size, considering she was to be operated by only two men. Her prow was sleek; her girth narrow despite her rounded hull. A cabin with large, square windows covered most of her aft; forward an open-sided striped awning provided shade. Raoul paced the side of the quay, following Dubeau to her prow, admiring the craft.

"She's just over fifteen metres long, fifteen and a quarter, to be exact," said Dubeau proudly. He pointed to the steam engine just forward of amidships, the funnel passing through the awning. "She'll reach a good ten knots, and she has a sea-worthy hull. Come aboard!"

He hopped onto the small deck at her front, floating almost level with the surface of the stone quay, and reached a hand back to steady Raoul. They stepped down under the awning.

"I would have preferred to have had her wheel here, by the boiler; she could be driven more easily by one man then," Dubeau continued. "But I suppose it does leave us more room here." He led the way into the tiny cabin. "She has everything we'll need. Those seats fold down into bunks." He led the way past the compact galley. "And here's the head. No buckets for us!" Raoul grinned in appreciation as he recalled his Navy training days.

"She's small for a long voyage," Dubeau admitted, "But we'll be stopping at some port or another almost every day, so we should be quite comfortable. As I said, if the weather turns bad we'll put in somewhere; but as you can see she can carry several days' supplies, so if we get caught in the open we won't starve. And the bilge has a pump installed. We can run it off the engine or manually, if we have to put the fire out. So." He paused, and shot Raoul a keen look. "What do you think?"

"I think she's beautiful," admitted Raoul. "She's perfect!"

"Wonderful! Then I'll finish stocking her up tomorrow. When do you want to leave?"

"Immediately."

They returned to the club, full of plans, and talked far into the night. Raoul would see to the navigation equipment and maintenance supplies; Dubeau would see to the food and sundries. Raoul insisted that a certain amount of salt pork and sea biscuits be included in the supplies; thanks to his naval training, he had developed, if not an actual fondness, a certain nostalgia for them.

They would sail south along the coast of France, through the Pillars of Hercules and into the Mediterranean, across the Mediterranean, and into the Nile. Raoul would see the pyramids.

They agreed to try and make around a hundred and fifty kilometres per day, or so; it would take them the better part of two days just to reach the ocean, the way the Seine twisted. "We can put in at Rouen for the night, and sleep on board," said Dubeau. "Best to discover if we need to make any changes before we leave France." Raoul agreed.

They talked far into the night. It was only when Raoul found himself nodding off for the third time that he finally agreed to have a cab summoned. Despite his exhaustion he felt energized, almost frantic to be gone. It was as well that he could barely stand; he wasn't sure his dignity would have been enough to prevent him from dancing about the club like a madman, so excited was he. But as it was, he left the club sedately, dignity intact if shoulders drooping slightly, and to his shock managed to stay awake for the cab ride home. He felt like a flower, he decided muzzily as he paid his fare; wilted, to be sure, but full of hidden vigour aching to spring free. He toppled into bed several minutes later and fell asleep to visions of singing flowers dancing about him.

* * *

><p><em>AN: Dubeau's little steam launch was a very popular type of boat at the time; I have to admit I'd like one myself! I've based this one principally off this particular one (whose lines I particularly admired) if you'd like to see what it looks like:_

_http: / / i61. photobucket. com/ albums/ h74/ Kryss_LaBryn /POTO %20 Stuff/ SteamLaunch1. jpg (no spaces)  
><em>

_Dubeau's isn't exactly the same (the main difference being that his has the awning in front, over the engine, as some others did) but it'll give you the idea._


	8. Chapter 8

**Chapter Eight**

Raoul stood on the little foredeck of the boat, the wind in his hair, the sun warm on his back, watching the banks of the Seine drift past. She was small, nothing nearly like the size of the naval vessels he had worked on; she was barely the size of one of their life boats. And yet, it felt unutterably good to be on the water again, to feel the pitch and yaw of the deck beneath his feet, to feel dormant muscles spring back to life as he effortlessly kept his balance. He loved the water; he should never have left it. What on earth had possessed him to jump ship, especially with such an adventure as a polar rescue before him? -Oh yes, his brother's death. He should have presented himself to the nearest Naval station as soon as his estate had been settled. He missed the sea, with a depth of yearning that almost overwhelmed him. He longed to see the horizon open into the ocean.

Behind him, in the stern, Dubeau kept a steady and competent hand on the wheel. Raoul could feel it through the balls of his feet, the way he compensated for the wakes of other boats. The river itself was sluggish and smooth. Raoul, meanwhile, was responsible for the engine; but with the firebox and boiler both well-stocked, he had time to enjoy the journey.

God, it was a relief to leave Paris! Ever since he had arrived, it had felt like a heavy cloud was pressing down upon him, some nameless, formless dread. Somehow he had felt uneasy, felt as though some unseen danger lurked around every corner. It had been growing steadily worse, he realized; but now, with the fresh breeze and bright sunlight and the baskets of flowers on the buildings along the banks- well, the danger, if danger it was, seemed well behind him. He breathed a deep sigh of relief, twisting his shoulders to loosen them.

He glanced back towards the stern, to Dubeau, giving the slightly wooden face a grin and a wave. He could just make him out through the cabin, the doors at both ends open to the breeze. He wondered briefly why his face seemed to lack a certain mobility. He was sure Dubeau had mentioned it, or else he had guessed it, but he didn't seem able to quite recall at that moment. Perhaps a slight paralysis? It wouldn't be polite to dwell on it, anyway. He turned back at a cheery hail and saluted the passing party. Most of them seemed to be very pretty young girls. They giggled and blushed; he saluted again as they passed to his rear, then, after indulging in one last admiring glance, he faced forward again.

Forward, towards the ocean. Towards his future.

They stopped that night at Rouen, tying up at a public dock and cooking a meal over the small alcohol stove in the little galley. The late Spring air was turning towards summer; they sat under the awning in the warm evening and ate off their laps, although Dubeau ate little, saying he had already nibbled away most of his helping of stew and bread as he prepared it. Raoul wolfed his own supper down with an appetite he had not possessed in far too long and sat back with a contented sigh, feeling that all the evening lacked was a fine claret, or perhaps a good stout beer. "We ought to see if we can find some grog," remarked Dubeau, echoing Raoul's own turn of mind towards the finer things in life.

"Grog," Raoul pulled a face. "I didn't think such a coarse drink would be to your taste."

"Oh, well," Dubeau stretched his legs out with a sigh, "One acquires tastes from all walks of life, when one experiences all walks of life."

"Well, if you want the horrid stuff, it should be easy enough to find," snorted Raoul.

"Oh?"

"Of course. Just buy the cheapest plonk you can find and mix your own."

Dubeau laughed.

The discussion continued far into the night while the gas street lights shimmering in their glass twinkled and glowed on the rippling surface of the river. Tomorrow, if all went well, they would reach the Atlantic.

In the morning they set off again, the boat rocking in the larger swells as the river widened towards the ocean; Dubeau once again in the stern; and Raoul once again in the prow, with that ineffable sense of danger behind him.


	9. Chapter 9

**Chapter Nine**

Downstream from Rouen the Seine had been dredged to allow cargo ships access; the little boat rolled in the swells. The smell of salt and iodine freshened the air. By mid-morning the river was tidal. But it wasn't until the late afternoon that they finally reached Le Havre, and the Atlantic.

Raoul's heart swelled as they chugged down the widening river and through the low-lying port town spread out around them. With a bound he leaped back down under the awning and blew a cheerful blast on the whistle, laughing with the simple joy of the sea.

Glancing back, he saw Dubeau grinning at his antics; the man threw him a cheerful wave which Raoul returned. Giving a last _peep_ on the little whistle, he bounded back to his usual place on the deck.

Shading his eyes from the afternoon sun he gazed happily at the unbound horizon ahead.

Navigating one of the busiest ports in France took more time than they would have liked; they stopped at the next town down the coast. Finding the quietest end they could of a public quay that seemed to be hosting some sort of celebration, they tied up, ate a brief meal, and slept.

This was to become the shape of their days. Rising with the sun, they would break their fast on any remnants of the last night's supper and good strong coffee, then head south. Lunch they ate as they travelled, bread and cheese and sausage; as the sun descended they would put in again at the next town. For the most part the weather held, and Raoul was happy to leave the steering to Dubeau; it left him free to admire the little seaside towns they passed. When the weather turned, however, he shared the duty with Dubeau, each trading off to dry themselves by the boiler.

"Do you know," said Raoul one day, "I do believe I recognize that quay. Do you know where we are? I spent each summer at the sea-side, as a child- I wonder, could that be Perro-"

A sudden curse from the rear interrupted his train of thought. "Is everything all right?" he called back, concerned. "What happened?"

"I'm fine," Dubeau returned, sounding irritated. "Got a bloody great splinter in my thumb from the tiller, that's all."

"Have you got it out? Do you need a hand?"

"No, I'm fine, thanks. Could you take a turn here, though, please? It's still a bit tender."

Raoul made his way astern and took over for several hours, while Dubeau kept him entertained with his own childhood memories of various circuses and fairs.

By the time they stopped once more for the night he had forgotten all about his own childhood visits to the seaside; and it never occurred to him to wonder how such a smooth-worn tiller gave Dubeau a splinter through the thin leather gloves he always wore.

The month wore on as they made their way down the coast towards the Mediterranean. Every day was the same, more or less. They'd stay in a town for a few extra hours, every few days, to purchase more food; fresh meat especially. Raoul insisted on saving the salt pork and hard tack for an emergency. The weather had so far for the most part ranged from lovely to merely unpleasant; but even this far south sudden storms could spring up. The Atlantic was treacherous.

The monotony should have bored Raoul, perhaps, but he enjoyed the quiet simplicity. The days passed, for the most part, with them at opposite ends of the boat, but the evenings were filled with conversations and stories. Dubeau was right, Raoul mused; he was an entertaining fellow; he wondered where he had heard the phrase before.

Raoul sipped his brandy, enjoying the calm evening and the gentle breeze as the setting sun gleamed over the ocean. Opposite him, Dubeau considered the colour of his cognac, holding the glass up in the fading rays."One can never truly remark the richness of the shade indoors, have you noticed?" he asked absently. "One needs the sun to bring out the subtleties, the depth of the ambers. The angle of the sun is perfect, look."

Raoul looked, then looked into his own brandy. "It's brown," he said finally.

"'Brown', paugh. _Look_ at it. Look at the _shades_ of it: amber, honey, the golden highlights." He took an appreciative sip. "If you could drink gold, this is what it would taste of."

"If you say so. I have never developed much of an appreciation for cognac, I'm afraid."

"You spent too many of your formative years drinking grog. Cognac is far too refined now for your poor abused palate."

Raoul snorted a laugh. "Believe me, others have tried to incline my palate towards it long before I ever set sail. No, I'm afraid there's just something about it that doesn't sit quite right with me. Too fruity, I think. Brandy is much more my thing. The warmth of it, like a dim, fire-lit room and an over-stuffed, leather chair..."

"Your hounds at your feet, your walls covered in trophies..."

"Perhaps." Raoul grinned.

Dubeau paused a moment, savouring the aroma of his drink, then looked at Raoul. "Tell me, have you ever tried an Armenian cognac? Or only the French ones?"

"I have no idea. I was only ever told that I was being offered a cognac, not its origins."

"Mm. You might like the Armenian ones, then. They're far superior. Or try one of the Borderies cognacs. They have a very pleasant nutty taste you might prefer. The Champagnes are very flowery, though; you probably wouldn't enjoy those as much."

"Perhaps. But they're not for me. I don't mind Armagnac, though." He paused, sipping thoughtfully, then sat up. "Champagne!"

"Grande champagne or petite champagne?"

"No, the wine! We've never christened the boat!"

"Well, she wasn't new when I purchased her. She may have already had a name."

"Do you know what it might be?"

"No," Dubeau told him, "But I have always thought of her as 'The Revenge'."

"'The Revenge'?" asked Raoul curiously. "Why that?"

"Oh, just my last hurrah, you know, despite it all" Dubeau answered, with an uncomfortable shift on the bench. "My revenge on an ageing body and a society that says that men of my years aren't supposed to go gallivanting about the world. You know how it is."

"I suppose so." Raoul thought for a moment. "Really, though, I would have said that she was far too cozy and, well, her lines are just too gentle, too rounded for such a- such a-" He waved one hand in the air vaguely. "You know what I mean. Such a harsh name, I suppose."

"And what would you propose?"

"I don't know," Raoul admitted. "I honestly haven't given it much thought. She should have a woman's name, I suppose."

"I suppose we could combine the two, make her 'Rosie's Revenge', or some such."

"Possibly, possibly, although I still think 'Revenge' too harsh. But alright. Not 'Rosie,' though. It's far too common. Makes her sound like a cow."

"I suppose she _is_ too elegant for 'Rosie'," Dubeau chuckled. "Do you have any ideas?"

Raoul mused a long moment, wondering. What name _felt_ right? When he thought of a beautiful, graceful woman, what would he call her? "...'Christine'," he said at last, slowly.

_Christine_.

His eyes opened wide in shock; he stared, aghast, at Dubeau. No- at _Erik_. How could he have forgotten? Good God, he was alone at sea with-

In a flash, Erik was upon him.

* * *

><p><em>AN: Dun dun DUN! Hey, if you've read this far, why not drop me a review and let me know what you think of it so far? Don't make me beg, you guys, cuz I totally will and you know it. XD Next chapter up tomorrow!  
><em>


	10. Chapter 10

**Chapter Ten**

Raoul groaned, turning his head from the dazzling sunlight stabbing through his eyelids, and then gasped as a lance of pain stabbed through his head. He was overcome by a wave of nausea, rolled to his side, and puked.

Dimly he became aware of a bucket held beneath his head as he wiped bile from his lips with trembling hands. Finally, expunged of the little in his stomach and exhausted, he fell back into his bunk. "What-" He tried to run his hand over his face, but the effort was too much.

"Here," Dubeau appeared at his elbow with a damp cloth. "Wipe your mouth."

With a supreme effort Raoul did so, sweat breaking out all over his body as he exerted himself. Dubeau slipped a supportive arm beneath his shoulders and raised a glass of warm, bitter water to his lips. "Now just sip," he commanded. "That's it."

Lowered back to his bunk again, Raoul moaned in pain. His entire head seemed about to split open. "What- what happened?" he asked thickly.

"Don't you remember?" Dubeau asked.

"No."

"I'm not surprised; it was a nasty knock you had. You're lucky you fell onto the deck and not overboard!"

"What happened? I don't... remember." All he could bring to mind was a horrible, sinking feeling of dread, of terrible danger. He shied away from it.

"Slipped, or tripped, I'm not quite sure which, and bonked your head on the side, so far as I could make out. My back was to you at the time. You have a nasty goose egg, though; I'm not surprised you feel so ill. You probably have a bit of a concussion." He paused. "You should rest. I've set the sea anchor; we'll be fine. Do you want anything to eat?"

Raoul almost vomited again, his stomach roiling. "God, no," he mumbled.

"All right, then. Look, I'll leave the bucket and the water here on the floor by you, all right? If you need anything I'll just be out front. Try to rest."

Raoul nodded, then winced in pain. "Laudanum?" he rasped.

"Already in the water, Raoul. Rest; you'll be fine.

"I'm here."

Raoul closed his eyes, uncomforted.

Raoul spent what seemed to him to be several more days in bed, alternating between sickness and sleep. The laudanum helped the pain but left him groggy and violently nauseous; Dubeau was left rinsing the bucket out overboard on a regular basis.

He couldn't seem to think straight. What was wrong? He supposed it must be an effect of the concussion or the laudanum, but he continued to feel a thick coil of dread winding through his guts, like some dreadful worm gnawing at his intestines. His stomach heaved again at the thought. _Thank God for Dubeau_, he thought, having once again spilled his guts into the ever-present bucket, and wondered why the thought brought him no comfort.

The man was attentive and Raoul was ill and could find no fault in his behaviour. He lay back again and once more passed into a deep sleep that granted no ease.


	11. Chapter 11

**Chapter Eleven**

Raoul woke and wondered for a moment what was different. Sunlight was not stabbing into his brain; but it seemed no less bright outside, and he finally, sleepily, realized what it was.

He felt better.

He felt weak, and he had a moment's dizziness as he sat up, swinging his legs over the side, but it passed. It was to be expected, after all, after so many days in a sickbed.

A sickbed. Raoul wrinkled his nose; he stank. So did the bedclothes. He began to understand why Dubeau had been spending his nights under the awning. His stomach growled; he had to piss.

Dragging the sheets with him, he stumbled out of the cabin. Dubeau was lying on one of the benches, clothed, his eyes shut. Asleep? He certainly didn't acknowledge Raoul's presence, so Raoul simply bundled the bedclothes onto the other bench, secured a rope and tossed it over the side, and then plunged in himself.

The cool water felt absolutely delicious against his filthy skin. He ducked under again, scrubbing at his scalp, and floated, rinsing away days of sour sweat. At last he swam back to the boat, still floating placidly with her sea anchor stretched out, and pulled himself up the rope over the low side.

He was weaker than he expected and he lay for a moment on the deck, gasping like a beached fish; but pleasantly warmed by the sun and the boiler.

He shifted, getting more comfortable, and was almost drifting off when Dubeau's sardonic voice drifted forward. "I certainly don't mind if you want to drape yourself all over the deck; but if you don't want a nasty sunburn you might want to at least keep certain areas covered up."

Raoul sat up guiltily. As far as he could make out past the bulk of the engine, Dubeau hadn't moved; but suddenly he felt awkward in nothing but his skin. "Sorry;" he mumbled, and edged past into the cabin to find some trousers. He had a short pair that left his lower legs bare, but which would at least preserve his rising sense of modesty, and _certain areas_ from the sun.

He pondered Dubeau's phrasing, and wondered if perhaps he was a sodomite? Certainly he had never mentioned a wife. He wondered how he felt about the possibility. He had run across such people before, of course; he was a man of the world, after all, if young; and certainly the Navy was rumoured to have more than its fair share, even if the practise itself was illegal. Still, there was a difference between supposedly having a few sodomites or catamites serving aside one on a vessel the size of a Navy ship, and sharing a tiny boat alone with one.

He looked outside at the endless ocean and shivered. They were as isolated as two humans could possibly be; he wondered where, precisely, they were. The plan had been to stay within sight of the coast, in case a sudden storm had arisen. They must have drifted while Dubeau dozed, he decided, despite the anchor.

_Was_ Dubeau a sodomite? He hadn't acted in any way untoward, so far, but still... Raoul wondered if that was the source of the lingering sense of faint unease he still felt, and decided that it must be. Dubeau must have said or done something while he was sick to put the idea into his mind, although he couldn't remember anything specific. He wondered what he might have done? A hand, lingering too long? A stolen caress in the guise of adjusting the bedclothes? He didn't know.

He wondered, for a moment, what it would be like, what it would feel like to kiss another man, but shook his head impatiently. Prickly, he thought, from what he had heard from women, and it was illegal and immoral and an affront to God himself, and so not worth pondering in the slightest. The very idea held no interest for him whatsoever.

He looked around once more at the endless ocean, then dug out the cake of soap and went out. He had laundry to wash.

* * *

><p><em>AN: I tried to make each chapter of a certain minimum length, and succeeded for a while; but as the story progresses I am finding that the chapters want to be shorter; or rather, that the dramatic break denoted by chapters is arising more often. But you will only have to wait to the next day, at least...  
><em>


	12. Chapter 12

_A/N: Trigger Alert: Dub-con ahoy!_

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter Twelve<strong>

Raoul was not sleeping well.

His nights were filled with an endless, whispering voice. He could never quite make out the words, however much he strained; but he was sure the voice spoke of terrible things. He'd wake up, dripping with sweat, eyes wide, staring into the smothering blackness of a starless night on the open ocean, frozen with terror.

The bright morning sun, when it finally came, did little to dispel his nameless fears; his days were shadowed with dread. He clung to Dubeau's presence as a touchstone but couldn't shake the lingering sense of danger. The very emptiness, the aloneness of the little boat in the middle of the water, filled him with horror.

He had been out on the open ocean many times; he was a sailor, for God's sake! A member of the _Marine __Nationale_! Why should he be so alarmed by it now? But it wasn't the same, was it? Even on the smallest Navy vessel, he wasn't so alone as this. He wasn't so- so cut off.

Thank God he had Dubeau with him. He was Raoul's one bastion against the terror-filled nights. In the evenings, instead of his usual place sprawled on the bench under the awning opposite Dubeau, he found himself sharing the same bench, edging as close as he dared as the night closed around them, like a child desperately seeking comfort.

If Dubeau noticed the change in seating arrangements (and how could he not?) he made no mention of it.

And now it was evening again; a Thursday, Raoul thought, trying to hide behind minutiae. His hand shook as he reached for the snifter Dubeau handed him. Where the devil was the moon? How could it still be dark after so many nights? So very many nights. He shivered.

The boat rocked slightly as Dubeau sat next to him. "Are you all right?" he asked. "You've been looking a little peaked lately. Is everything all right?"

Raoul tried to grin. "It's just... I-" He looked at the black oily depths roiling around them. "Do you know, I think I'm afraid of the water?" He gave a shaky laugh.

"Of the water? You? A sailor?" Dubeau gave a warm, comforting chuckle. "No, I cannot believe that. Not the ocean itself! But perhaps you have a touch of agoraphobia? Just enough that you wouldn't have noticed it on a larger ship, but out here..."

Raoul shuddered and involuntarily edged closer. "Don't worry, Raoul," Dubeau said in a low voice. "I'm here." He put a friendly arm around Raoul's shoulders.

With a sob of terror, Raoul threw his arms about Dubeau's waist and clung to him, shaking. "Oh, God," he moaned, "The water..."

"Come with me." Dubeau's voice was low, commanding, soothing. He stood up, taking Raoul, still clinging tight, with him, and with a steady pace drew him into the little cabin. Seating Raoul on his bunk, he carefully disengaged to draw the curtains to, and light another lantern. Returning to Raoul, he seated himself beside him, and drew him once again into his arms. "Better?" he asked.

Raoul drew a steadying breath. "Better... yes, I think so." But his muscles refused to unclench.

"Good," Dubeau murmured, and gently kissed his hair.

A shock of alarm ran through Raoul and he sprang back. "Look, I- I'm sorry, Dubeau, old boy, but, ah-"

"No, no, you mistake me quite," Dubeau smiled.

"Well, ah- good! I mean, I know some sailors have a, uh," he coughed, "A certain _reputation_, but I assure you that I am a perfectly normal, upstanding-"

"Raoul." Dubeau cut him off and stared hard at him. "_Charlotte_."

Raoul stared at him, nonplussed. "Ch-Charlotte?" he echoed. A sudden wave of dizziness, of disorientation, swept over him. He felt disconnected suddenly, as if he was watching actors on a stage, rather than directly experiencing things. He was swamped in unreality. Sudden heat engulfed his groin.

"What- what on Earth..." His gaze fell on Dubeau. "Dubeau? What is happening to me?"

"Raoul," Dubeau's commanded in a voice like honey, warm and irresistible, "_Desire me_."

Raoul's eyes widened; he longed suddenly, inexplicably, to taste Dubeau. To know the shape of him, the feel of his skin against his own. But this was wrong- wrong! Unnatural, against all his leanings and beliefs...

"_Raoul_." Dubeau leaned forward, stretching forth an impossibly long, slender hand. Fingers like white spiders reached for him, gently stroked the front of his trousers. "_Charlotte_."

Raoul shuddered. He knew now the source of his vague unease. He was right; Dubeau _was_ a sodomite. He struggled to pull away, to leave; but his muscles wouldn't obey. He sat, frozen, while Dubeau gently undid his belt and unbuttoned his fly. "There," murmured Dubeau, gently stroking his flaccid member, "That isn't so bad, is it?"

Summoning all his will, Raoul managed to speak. "This... is wrong..."

"Wrong? But who's to say so? We're miles away from anyone. No one ever need know..." He bent Raoul's unresponsive body back onto the bunk. "Come now. Haven't you always wondered what it would be like? Who is to see? No one need ever know..." He pulled Raoul's trousers over his bare feet and tossed them onto the floor.

As hard as he struggled inside, as hard as he told himself he was trying, Raoul couldn't move a muscle. He lay motionless while Dubeau's mouth worked on him and his mind raced. This was wrong- forbidden; but- _oh_! Oh, God, as repulsed as he was by the idea of lying with another man, he couldn't deny this inexplicable upwelling of desire. For Dubeau? Or for anyone, and Dubeau was to hand?

Oh, God. He was revolted, of course he was revolted; but it had been so long, and Dubeau was willing, and no one was around; they were alone on the ocean...

With a moan of terror he remembered the endless waves outside, hungry, empty; and to his surprise he found himself moving closer to the only source of comfort at hand. He could move!

He struggled to throw Dubeau off, to rise, to object- but again he found himself bound. But- He raised a hand to draw it gently down Dubeau's shoulder, and found he could move.

So- he was powerless to resist; but he could be a compliant partner?

"_Charlotte_... Ah, that's better, Raoul, my love..."

Raoul felt himself stiffen. And why not? Who was to know? And why not seize one night of peace, of comfort, of... joy? -for himself. He reached for Dubeau.

Eagerly, almost angrily, Dubeau was upon him, tearing his shirt loose. Raoul stretched to kiss Dubeau, wondering what a man's mouth tasted like, but Dubeau turned his head away, offering a hand instead. "Come, Raoul," he commanded, "Roll over."

With a moan of desire, Raoul obeyed. He felt sick, feverish; but he was helpless to resist. Oh, God...

He felt fingers probing him, a scorching pain as their acid burned his most delicate membranes, and managed to squirm in discomfort. They withdrew, but he felt something else, something hard- too hard, too wide! He clamped tight against it. Dubeau murmured, "Charlotte, Raoul, _Charlotte_," to him and stroked his flanks; all but swooning Raoul fell forward onto the bunk.

Again he felt it pushing against him, but this time, relaxed to a degree, he felt it push past his sphincter and slide in.

Oh, God- the sensation was indescribable. Dubeau partially withdrew before pushing forward again, deeper; Raoul almost screamed as Dubeau's penis rubbed his prostrate. "Oh God- _More!_" he gasped, "_Harder!_" and Dubeau complied, thrusting violently against him. Raoul had never come so quickly to the edge before. He reached down to stroke himself, and found himself climaxing almost immediately. With a last cry he fell forward into a swoon.

* * *

><p><em>AN: So I expect a lot of you have had no idea where I was taking this, really (beyond obviously, somehow, "slash," eventually). And now you know. What's going to happen next? Muahahahaaa!_

_Please, do let me know what you think. I want to hear from you- yes, you._ _I receive no other payment, and with two kids it's hard to find the time and energy to write. Your reviews help inspire me to take whatever twisted little plots I may dream up and wrestle them onto (figurative, electronic) paper._

_So thank you to everyone who does take the time to review my work- I think I can safely speak for all of us who write when I say we deeply appreciate all our reviews and reviewers. I certainly do, anyways! It's enouraging to see from the stats that people are reading! Nothing like a review in my inbox, though. They warm the very cockles of my 'eart, they do! :D 3  
><em>

_And ooh! What's going to happen next? XD Wouldn't you like to know! Muahahahahahahaaaaaa..._


	13. Chapter 13

**Chapter Thirteen**

When Raoul woke it was morning. The little boat drifted, rocking gently on the waves. He lay naked in the sunlight; to his embarrassment Dubeau, still clothed, sat, knees drawn to his chin, on his bunk opposite, gazing at him.

Raoul's rectum hurt; he felt unpleasantly dribbly. Uncomfortable, he drew the sheets over himself. "Er, good morning, Dubeau..." he began uneasily. "Think I'll just, uh... morning swim, don't you know..." He moved to arise but Dubeau's voice, cold, stopped him.

"Raoul..."

"Mmm?"

"_What is my name_?"

"Why, Dubeau, of course..." He trailed away as the edge of a memory trailed across his mind. "That is... wait..."

"_Christine_," Dubeau hissed.

With a jolt that all but stunned him, Raoul came to his senses. He stared at Dubeau in incomprehension. "Wait- But- _Erik_? But how-?"

He shifted, and cold wet fluids against his skin brought the reality of the previous night tearing home to him. "You utter _bastard!_" There were no words to describe his perfidy.

Erik laughed. "Why so upset, _Raoul_? You seemed perfectly happy last night."

"How _dare_ you? You _violated_-" Raoul was trembling with rage.

"Did I indeed?" Erik's voice- the voice whispering in his dreams, his nightmares, Raoul realized- was full of suppressed rage, his eyes full of hate. "Tell me, was that _before_ or _after_ you begged me to fuck you harder?"

Raoul was all but white with rage himself. He was so angry he couldn't even form coherent thoughts. To have had _Erik_, of _all_ people- The man's villainy knew no bounds. "_Why_?" he managed to grate out.

"_Why?_" hissed Erik. "_Why_? Because you never _did_ understand _any_ compassion that _anyone_ ever felt for me! To you I was _nothing-_- less than an animal; nothing but a _mistake_ to be disposed of as quickly and efficiently as possible. You couldn't even admit the _possibility_ that I might be an actual person! Why, the very _idea_ that Christine might not automatically hate the very _idea_ of me baffled you completely!"

He chuckled, a low, menacing sound. "But you understand _now_, don't you? You were _friends_ with me, we were _companions_, gentlemen adventurers together. _Lovers_, even." He sneered. "Suddenly, I was a person to you. And all I had to do was make you forget my face..."

Raoul had managed to gain control of himself while Erik talked. He was still so furious that he was almost astounded that he wasn't already strangling the wretched creature; but he was also deathly aware of the danger. Erik terrified him. He was utterly, utterly mad, and there was no escape... "How did you manage to do that, by the way?" he asked, his throat tight with the effort to sound natural. "Some sort of mesmerism, I suppose?"

"Indeed," gloated Erik; "Something of the sort. And a few other tricks. But do you want to know the really very fascinating thing about mesmerism, Raoul? The thing that makes it really so very fascinating is that one can't use it to force someone to do something utterly against their nature. You can't force a little girl to kill her kitten with it, for example, unless she was already a very bad sort to begin with.

"You do understand the full implications of that, don't you? Deep inside, some part of you _wanted_-"

"Stop." Raoul drew a ragged breath, ignoring the monster's lies.

"_Charlotte_..."

Again, unreasonably, Raoul felt a sudden surge of lust; but knowing who- _what_ 'Dubeau' was instantly turned it to revulsion. He looked at Erik with utter contempt. "What I may or may not have wanted had nothing to do with _you_," he said. "You had to make me forget who you were to have me even tolerate your presence!"

Erik laughed again. "And yet, _Christine_ tolerated my presence, didn't she? Given the chance to run away, she returned to me, even knowing who I was. Perhaps, in her own way, some small part of her even loved me.

"And you _killed_ her."

"She died of consumption!"

"_You killed her!_" Erik roared, leaping to his feet. "You _knew_ it ran in her family, and did you take her to the Mediterranean? _Did_ you? _No!_ You could have taken her _anywhere_, and instead of somewhere warm and dry you took her to bloody _Sweden!_ You _stole_ her from me, and you _killed_ her!"

"I did what she _wanted!_" Raoul shouted back, also on his feet, nose to nose with Erik. "I _tried_ to get her to go to Nice, but she _refused_! All she wanted to do was to go home and hide from _you_!"

With a terrific _crack_ Erik backhanded him and Raoul leaped upon him, fingers grasping for the scrawny neck, fingers squeezing as they wrestled and fought in a horrible parody of the evening before. Erik had a terrible, wiry strength, the strength of madness, but Raoul fought like a man possessed, like a man fighting for his very soul, releasing all the terror, frustration, and rage spawned by the devil back into the hands that were wrapped around his very neck. It took him quite some time before he realized that Erik was no longer moving; he only stopped because his arms were numb and shaking with weariness.

He found himself on the floor, naked, lying on the motionless body, the two of them tangled in the sheets like lovers. Raoul quickly extracted himself and grabbed the frying pan. It was small, but solid, and the nearest thing to a weapon he had to hand.

But Erik lay motionless. Not even the rise and fall of his chest betrayed him. Raoul sat motionless for a long time, staring at him, before he noticed the creature's tongue lolling out of the side of his mouth. He nudged him with his foot; kicked a little harder. Nothing.

Was he dead? How could one tell, really, with someone who looked like that? Raoul carefully reached for a limp wrist and inexpertly tried to take a pulse. Nothing, but was that because there was no pulse to take?

The eyes were glazed, at half mast, staring off to each side; the jaw hung slack. Raoul had only ever seen such on one living person, and he had been deathly ill. The fiend was dead, Raoul was sure of it.

Now what?

Well, he was damned if he was going to leave him there to rot. He could rot indeed for all Raoul cared, but not _there_. No, over the edge it would have to be, and that meant weights. What did he have that would hold a bloating body down?

A careful search turned up very little. A larger vessel might have had rocks for ballast; but the little steam launch had nothing of the sort; with the weight of the engine she simply didn't need it. In the end Raoul was forced to simply wind the body in his sheets (he didn't fancy sleeping in the fiend's bed, but neither did he want to be rolling about in the remains of his semen, washed or not) and tie it off with rather more of the rope than he would have liked. He had sliced the abdomen open, so that gases would be released as they formed rather than building up; he hoped that the entrails, even wound in the fabric as they were, would attract enough fishes- maybe even sharks- that the body would be consumed long before gases became an issue. With some difficulty- the bastard had been skinny, but tall, and the weight was a dead one- he hauled him up onto one of the benches and thence to the bulwark, and, with a muffled curse consigning him to the depths of Hell, he rolled him overboard.

They drifted along at the same slow pace for a while, the boat- _Christine's Revenge_, Raoul thought- and the body, until Raoul drew up the sea anchor and fired up the boiler. It had been out for a long time; the water was cold and would take quite some time to heat; but Raoul was in no hurry. He drew up a bucket of water from the other side of the boat and washed as thoroughly as possible, reducing their cake of soap by half by the time he was done, and dressed. The clothes he had been violated in he stuffed into the fire box. It left him with only one change of clothes, but he would rather go naked in the streets than wear them again.

Where to now? He felt that he had all the time in the world; that terrible feeling of doom had at last lifted. But his supplies were limited; he suspected that he would be both grateful for the hard tack and thoroughly sick of fish by the time he struck land. But where was he?

The charts were gone. Raoul rummaged through the cupboard that had held them, finally pulling everything out- but no charts. A scrap of paper caught his eye. On it a halting hand had laboriously printed,

_You killed her. You killed her, and you have killed me; but I have killed you!_

Raoul crumpled it into a ball and tossed it, too, into the firebox.

He was a sailor. More than that, he was a sailor in the _Marine __Nationale_, and he knew the position of his homeland as he knew the position of his heart. Whistling, he dug through his clothes for a small box and his pocket watch.

Alone on the ocean, but armed with his compass and sextant, Raoul headed for home.

_Fin_

* * *

><p><em>AN: I find it tremendously satisfying, on a very basic level, that this lasted for thirteen chapters, and (in my writing program at least) forty-two pages. The numbers, while completely meaningless, feel significant, somehow._

_So there you go. My attempt at writing a slashfic while keeping the two characters involved basically correct. Was Erik actually capable of going to such lengths to take revenge? Yes, I think so. Would he have gone so far as rape? Noooo, no, I don't really think so. Oh, I'm sure he's physically capable of it; but I'm not sure he would be emotionally capable of it, of such intimate contact with another living body. But then, rape isn't about intimacy, is it? It's about power and control, and that aspect fits very well, here, I think._

_I have had the germs of this idea floating around for quite some while now, triggered by wondering if it was, indeed, possible to get the two men into bed together without violating their characters completely. And I like to think that I have succeeded. Certainly I am very proud of my depiction of Raoul, here. Don't get me wrong, I am staunchly E/C; but really, for all his own faults Raoul was by far the better choice. I love Leroux's Erik to bits, but he's not a healthy choice. And I think I did him justice, more or less, even if I did get the poor boy raped. Sorry, dude._

_Originally, the story was going to end with Raoul killing Erik only to find himself alone without charts on an open ocean in a boat he could not run by himself, doomed to a slow death by hunger and thirst by his own murder (however justified) of Erik; but when I came down to it, the thread of the story refused to lie down that way. "Raoul's a damned sailor," it insisted; "He'd know how to navigate by the sun and the stars, and if he had a pocket-watch still set for Paris time he could estimate his longitude and decide whether he would be better off heading back west (which would be most likely; it takes much longer than a few days to cross even half the Atlantic; big steamers used to take the better part of two weeks) or to try and reach the Americas, and if he was also equipped with a sextant, salt pork, hard tack, and a certain amount of water, why, then, there was no reason he shouldn't simply fire up the boiler, set the speed, and steer the tiller for home." Having a second man to control the speed would only matter in the close quarters of a port, not out on the middle of the open ocean._

_And so I have done. I hope you have enjoyed my murderous little foray into the world of slashfics. I am still writing, if not as prolifically as before; my creative juices are also supporting a burgeoning Steampunk habit (which so far mostly involves a lot of sewing; you can read about it on my LJ account, which is linked in my profile). But I am still writing so you will eventually see more from me._

_-But probably no more slash, because I can't see anywhere else to go with it, for myself. Although I have to admit a certain temptation to writing a "hot lesbian ballerinas" joke-fic, so you maaaay see that some day. We'll see. So far I have the slight urge and no plot and I do kind of need that, so don't hold your breath. ;-)_

_My thanks to Eden for helping me out with this one and suggesting "Dubeau"'s name. My inability to spell it "Dubeau" instead of "Dubois" is entirely my own. The hell, self? XD Thank the gods for Find/Replace, that's all I can say. Check her out; she paints beauuuutiful pictures!_

_www. edenbachelder. com_

_Now, I have a request for you all: I SUCK at summaries. I can NEVER figure out how to sum up the idea of the story in an interesting way that will attract people and lead them to want to check that story out without giving away too much of the plot. And I'm pretty sure that the summary for this particular fic is a particularly egregious example of my lack of ability with summaries (this is why I don't have a Twitter account; seriously, how can I communicate anything in 140 characters? I can barely manage coherent statements in 500 over at YouTube! XD). So I have two questions: First, does anyone have any suggestions for how to update this particular summary to make it more apt? ("Apt to what?" "Quiet, you.") And second, I have it listed as Drama/General. Should I change that "General" to something else? And if so, to what?_

_Thanks for the help! 3  
><em>

_Oh, and completely off-topic, go check out Pika-la-Cynique's "Girls Next Door" comic series over at DeviantArt if you haven't yet. It's awesome. _


End file.
